Truth Is Worth More Than Pride
by charlotteschaos
Summary: Hoping for a story that will clear Snape's name, Hermione is sent to Azkaban prison to interview him for the Daily Prophet.


The rubber of Hermione's sensible shoes squeaked as she trudged down the darkened stone corridor of Azkaban prison. Slime was never removed from the walls and the humidity made her already curly hair frizz around her face like a tatty halo that lit up in the wavering candlelight. 

Severus Snape was the last of the big Death Eater threats left alive six years after Voldemort had been destroyed. Her job was one that she never thought she'd have, but schoolgirl dreams of making a difference had brought her to a practical solution; she took over Rita Skeeter's job. She comforted herself that she had brought truth to the _Daily Prophet _and integrity to Wizard reporting-- although she was pretty sure she was about to be fired for her trouble.

Such was the real world-- disappointing and disillusioning.

Interviewing the murderer of one of her mentors wasn't going to help her outlook.

She took a seat in front of the cell and looked through the veil of misty magic that held her previous professor caged. It gave her a grim satisfaction to see that he hadn't aged well. His hair was shot through with more silver than it should have been, and his face was so sallow that it was nearly grey. Still, he held himself with a regal nobility, as if somehow he was displaced in this prison and expected someone to right it at any moment.

"Miss Granger." He stood, his dark grey robes seemed to absorb the light and his black curtain of hair obscured his expression. Given his intonation, however, he seemed to take no pleasure in his greeting.

"Mrs Weasley," she corrected as she set her bag down and pulled out her Quick Quotes Quill and a piece of parchment.

"Not anymore." At this utterance, he tilted his head up, showing off his glittering, yellowed teeth that were bared in more of a grimace than a grin; its malicious intent clear.

She refused to give him the expected response of sorrow. Hermione was long past expressions of grief from such little goading. She pressed on. "How do you feel about Draco Malfoy's campaign to have you exonerated?"

Snape brought his hand to his hair and kept it back as he sat back against his chair and closed his eyes. "The man has always been misguided."

"So you deny his claim that you and Dumbledore had his murder prearranged?" She watched his facial expression, but it did not change no matter what she said.

He leaned forward then, his eyes boring into hers. She remembered Harry mentioning that he was a Legilimens long before it became public knowledge. Avoiding his gaze was rote to talking to him. She averted her eyes. He chuckled. "What do you think?"

"I think you're a cold-blooded killer. But this isn't about me." She watched the words being recorded by her quill.

"Isn't the rule of a reporter to be unbiased? Not very sporting of you to have made up your mind before speaking with me." He sat back again and turned his attention to his surprisingly well-manicured nails. She supposed he had time to tend to them in prison, without potions to make.

"We're allowed opinions." She crossed her legs and pulled her woolen skirt down. She wished she'd worn something less scratchy; however she'd wanted to appear professional.

"Of course, of course. Do you usually have your mind made up when you conduct interviews?"

Hermione eyed Snape; he didn't appear particularly vexed, but even so his words came with an edge. "You're a special case."

"Indeed." He stood and began to pace methodically in front of the small framed cot, avoiding the corner with the hole in the floor for obvious reasons. "Did you cry at Weasley's funeral?"

"This interview isn't about me." She paused the quill and narrowed her eyes. "Why haven't you gone on record with whether there was a plan or not?"

"It's perfectly natural to cry, especially at such a tragic loss. I wonder if another Weasley could replace him."

No doubt he was referring to her failed relationship with Charlie. It caught her off-guard that he knew about that. Her fingers tightened around the quill. "No one could replace Ron."

"Not even Potter?"

With that, Hermione stood and shoved her quill and parchment into her purse. "This interview is over."

* * *

The next day found her in the same predicament, more or less. Her shoulders squared against whatever Snape was likely to throw at her, this time she decided to stand in front of his cell. From here she could see the notations he'd made on parchments that were tacked to his wall-- potions theories from a brilliant mind that was unlikely to again see the light of day intact. 

Snape lay languid, reading on the small cot. The brief cushion the only comfort afforded him by his harsh surroundings. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. "Miss Granger."

"Weasley."

"You have returned." He did not look up from his book, but licked his finger to turn the page. His head turned to start anew.

"You didn't answer my questions." She took a step forward, but the steady hum of the powerful magic reminded her to remain where she was.

"You didn't answer mine." Sighing, he marked his place in the book and tucked it under his bed. He rolled out of the cot and made his way with a purposeful ease to stand before her. His dark eyes had lost none of their intensity from the rigors of Azkaban.

"Your questions were inappropriate and not the point of my visit." Hermione hedged at his proximity by flinching but held her ground.

Snape gave her a smirk in return and moved back to his cot. "You are desperate for a story. The _Prophet _does not see eye-to-eye with your politics."

"They backed me completely."

"'The inhumanity of the Dementor's Kiss is not the only question before a corrupt Ministry, but one of trust. At first glance, they seem a convenient escape from the dirty job of caring for and rehabilitating rogue Wizards. But is it rehabilitation if all we do is the equivalent of a Muggle lobotomy? Furthermore, these magical creatures have shown themselves to be far too eager to turn to the dark themselves. We should not be entrusting our fallen to them, we should banish them outright for the morbid, treacherous creatures they are.'" Snape recited the words with a theatrical flair, his hands gesturing in mockery of Hermione's grandstanding.

"You know my words better than I do. I'm not certain I could even quote the speech I made when I received the Humanitarian Wizard award for that article." She raised her brows to challenge him.

Snape scoffed. "A humanitarian is what you fancy yourself, is it? All of your work on behalf of house-elves and rogue wizards, but we both know who you really are. What you wanted and what you did to achieve it."

"I'm certain I don't know what you mean. Perhaps this is projection on your part. Loneliness in a place such as this can cause a certain dementia that would lead to delusions that you must be creating. It is you who did what you wanted, or that is what you are accused of." She pressed her hand against the divider next to where the cell began. "Tell me why you killed Dumbledore."

He looked up at her stance, how she leaned in now, her hand outstretched to the wall. "You're a clever girl, Granger."

"Weasley."

"I bet you know all manner of enchantments to let yourself into my cell. Why don't you show me what a brave Gryffindor you are and come inside?" He stood and folded his arms, crossing to where she stood.

"No."

"You want answers, but you want them to cost nothing. So much like Potter, you are. Did you even know what he was?" He smirked when her hand slapped against her thigh and she withdrew. "Of course you didn't. You couldn't have, could you?"

Hermione stared at him with complete loathing. He curled his finger to try and call her inside.

As she stepped out of the prison wards, she mused that she hadn't even bothered to get out her notepad.

* * *

Though she was a clever witch, it took her a few days to track down the proper incantation with which to disable an Azkaban cell enough to slip through. Then it took another day to figure out how to slip her wand past the Aurors. She was grateful that as of yet, they had not reinstated the Dementors as regular guards to the prison, but that seemed as inevitable as the biting change of fall into winter.

Snape's diamond-sharp gaze pierced her dreams and his words cut into her thoughts. How did he know so much? She worried now that she was so transparent. Perhaps the entire Wizarding world knew of her secret shame, the sorrow that she carried with her that now drove her to maddening feats of altruism and celibacy. But he couldn't know. No one did.

Hermione slipped past the bindings of the cell before Snape had even pulled his arm off of his face. His pallid elbow jutted out from the dark prison robes and she observed the steady rhythm of his breathing. "I see that your cleverness and ingenuity has not faded."

She jumped at his voice and nearly forgot herself in her terror, backing towards the wards. Ice cold fingers wrapped around her forearm and dragged forward as Snape stood, simultaneously pulling her from harm's way as he stood up. Perfection in Slytherin movement. "Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus, Miss Granger."

"Weasley," she said, regaining her composure as she snatched her arm away. "You are not a dragon, and I was hardly going to tickle you."

"But we both know someone who does tickle dragons, don't we?" Snape's wolfish grin had always been off-putting, but at such close range and with the staleness of his breath, it turned Hermione's stomach.

Yet, as much as the topic of Harry made her want to flee, and as much as Snape repulsed her, she felt an odd fluttering. It wasn't just that Snape was gazing at her with such fierceness; it was that he appeared to want to devour her. Part of her wanted to be consumed.

"I have done as you asked; I am in your cell, now you must tell me what your plan was regarding Dumbledore. Was it as Malfoy says?" Her eyes followed him as he started to circle her, and she tried to control her trembling. She had her wand, and he was unarmed. But she had a stilling sense of wanting to be hurt. If she suffered, then she would be redeemed.

"Malfoy, as you well know, says a lot of things-- usually only to his advantage. Although even you must admit that there is honesty to being untrustworthy. I bet he sleeps soundly at night. Do you sleep well, Miss Granger?"

"Weasley," she said, this time faintly. Her fingers traced over the dark circles under her eyes. It wasn't worth debating. "I might lose my job. I need a good story."

"Oh, Miss Granger. I know you have at least one good story that you have yet to tell. Tell me a story." Snape stopped his circling and perched on the edge of his bed, his eyes keen on Hermione.

Her breath was coming out in shorter gasps, as if it were her soul being slowly plucked out of her body. "I don't know what you mean."

"What happened to your husband, Miss Granger?"

"Weasley," she whined. Her vision was starting to tunnel and she looked wildly around the room, trying to find Snape. He had not moved and yet, he felt everywhere at once, in her mind-- prodding her, invading her, willing her to go on. "He was magic-addled by the Cruciatus Curse."

Snape stood, crossing in front of her. He was a bit taller than she, but not immensely so. Still, she felt small like a student under his examination. Exposed, raw, naked. For a moment, she believed she was naked, her nipples hardening in the aridly terse bitter wind that came from everywhere and nowhere. She imagined his bony cold hands squeezing the nubs, his nakedness as icy as his hands, as his demeanor, as his gaze. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as she believed she felt him inside of her, his cock the only burning thing, driving stiffly home after the near blinding pain of his first thrust after all of these years of denial.

"That is not lethal, Miss Granger."

She squeezed her eyes tighter, crossing her arms around herself as she felt him pushing, ramming, thrusting deep. He was searing inside of her, bearing in and she welcomed it, welcomed him until she felt that ethereal tremble, the heightened sense of losing herself to a feeling of absolute nothingness. Bliss. "He fell down the stairs at St. Mungo's," she gasped, feeling the faint warmth and trickling between her legs.

"Fell, or was pushed?"

In the absence of her usual shield of denial, after the sensory overload of her imagined orgasm, Harry's face flashed into her mind. Green eyes-- cheery, sad, and flaming with fury over what she'd done. "I didn't know Harry was..."

"But Malfoy knew."

"I found them... after. I found them in his bed and he was... inside of Malfoy and I'd... oh God, I'd pushed him. Just a little shove and... I was so alone, but Ron was still alive. But Ron wasn't himself and I couldn't get away. I thought Harry... but he..." Her eyes opened wide as she realized her admissions. Hermione clamped her hand over her mouth and looked down, shocked that she was still clothed. "You... how did you?"

Snape grabbed her wrist and swung her bodily around. His weight crushed against her back with her arm twisted between them. The hardness of his cock pressed against her arse. It was nightmarish to only be able to offer up a whimper because of her inability to catch her breath. Worse than that, she could feel her body's years of neglect crashing in on itself, filling her with a physical want of his body against her like this. Her mind rebelled against such a notion, however and she forced herself to struggle.

He ground his hips against her and she shuddered. She tried to convince herself that the trembling was due to his breath and not the position.

Hermione's head hurt against the slippery stone, she was pretty sure the trickle of wetness trailing down the bridge of her nose was not from her free-flowing tears.

Snape breathed against her ear and bit it savagely before placing a tender kiss on her cheek. Angels didn't kiss that sweetly. "You are forgiven." Then he released her. Before she could form a response that was more than rubbing her wrist, he was at the other side of the cell calling for the guards.

Whirling around, she stared at him before hissing, "Tell me the truth. You owe me at least that much." The guards were loudly rounding the corner and she knew her time with him was limited.

"I put him out of his misery." Snape smirked at Hermione's angered look.

"That's not an answer." A guard had latched onto her arm, his wand dividing the shield that kept Snape in enough to yank her out.

"It is the only answer, I'm afraid. Goodbye, _Mrs Weasley_. " Snape waved lightly before turning his back on her to consult a book.

Her last memory of him was the grin he spared her that said, "I had you," just before he was Kissed and all consciousness of his identity was devoured.

_ Severus Snape was Kissed on October 28, 2004. He is survived by no one._

Hermione sat back and stared at the words on the parchment. The quill was poised over the parchment, awaiting its next order. She sighed and ended the incantation, finished her glass of wine and headed to bed.


End file.
